


Tired Liar

by toomuchplor



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Cuddling and Snuggling, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-14
Updated: 2012-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-29 12:07:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/319731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomuchplor/pseuds/toomuchplor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a symptom; it'll probably pass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tired Liar

Arthur is sick, and his defences are down. Usually he is a rabid advocate of Personal Space When Sleeping but tonight when he hits the mattress, head spinning, he finds himself burrowing up into Eames' armpit with his arm flung over Eames' chest. Eames is wearing a shitty threadbare cotton t-shirt that Arthur hates on principle except at this exact moment it makes an amazing pillow — soft and nice-smelling and heated through with Eames’ ever-churning muscle-powered metabolism.

Arthur doesn't even care that Eames is probably giving him surprised eyebrows and smirky lips because everything hurts; Arthur’s so tired, so achy, so drained, but for some reason it all fades into a sort of background misery if he can just keep his cheek tight against Eames, drown himself in the soft _thok-thok_ of Eames’ heartbeat, the tide of his breath as he draws air to speak.

"Can I help you with something, Arthur?” Eames asks, voice boomier than usual with Arthur’s ear flat to his ribs. “Have you misplaced your sense of grumpy standoffishness?"

Arthur's too drained to answer beyond clinging a little more resolutely. He might, maybe, make a vaguely sad noise as he digs in. If Eames is going to be an asshole about this, Arthur thinks — if he's really determined to be a jerk (and Eames can be amazingly stubborn, particularly when it comes to obnoxious behavior) Arthur will probably find the energy somewhere to roll over and anchor himself on his too-soft too-cool pillow instead. It'll be good enough, he supposes.

After all, Eames doesn't want whatever Arthur has, this achy-shivery-sore-throat thing. They both have the job in Dublin next week. It's no good, getting Eames sick too; if their roles were reversed Arthur would be sleeping on the couch, possibly inside a CDC quarantine tent. It's not like Arthur has the moral high ground, here.

He pinches a bit of Eames' cotton shirt in his fingers anyway, just in case.

But Eames may be a crook and a liar and (at least once that Arthur knows of) capable of mocking small children _to their tiny faces_ , but one of his very few redeeming qualities (other than his body, this t-shirt, his scent, his lips, his voice, his — Arthur seems to be a bit feverish now) — one of Eames’ two or three dozen redeeming qualities is mercy.

Mercy, and possibly something of a soft spot for Arthur.

So Eames doesn't scrape Arthur off him in a fit of completely defensible pragmatism; he doesn't laugh or complain or tease further. Eames instead cards his fingers through Arthur's hair, drifts nails over Arthur's aching head, and says, very softly, tenderly, "Poor sweet darling.”

The only right reaction to being called 'poor sweet' anything is, naturally, a punch to the perpetrator; Arthur settles for another sad sigh. It's honestly the best he can do at the moment. It's got nothing to do with the sudden well of liquid warmth just under his sternum, Arthur decides.

(Which is probably a symptom, anyway. Probably Arthur is going to die like this, like some overwrought bohemian heroine fading away on her lover's strong chest, which is ten kinds of unacceptable.)

Arthur is going to put a stop to this any moment, just as soon as Eames quits being warm and perfect and solid under his cheek, just as soon as Arthur's body stops needing Eames close enough to dull the awfulness.

"Shh," Eames whispers, thumbing the too-hot skin behind Arthur's ear, wrapping his free arm around Arthur, _tight-tight-perfect_. "Got you."

Everything hurts, nothing is right, but Eames is solid, warm, smells good. Arthur decides to sleep now and worry about what it means later.

**Author's Note:**

> Written on Twitter when I was feeling somewhat pathetic myself, which will (hopefully) excuse the fact that [I've sort of written this fic before](http://archiveofourown.org/works/151087). [More than once](http://archiveofourown.org/works/307696).
> 
> Title's from Regular Joe's song "Sick Again".


End file.
